


Another Round

by zinke



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-07
Updated: 2009-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinke/pseuds/zinke
Summary: He doesn’t want to fight with her – not now and not like this. But at his core Bill is nothing more than an old soldier, trained to attack when fired upon, to shoot first and ask questions later. And right now he can’t help feeling as if he’s being assailed from all sides, with no clear recourse to be found.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to survival instinct.net on April 7, 2009.
> 
> Am I the only one who, after viewing Deadlock’s scene between Bill, Laura and Ellen in the Ward Room, kept waiting for a follow-up scene in which Laura kicked Bill’s ass for being a big, inebriated woobie? And then was left disappointed and confused because it never happened? No? Excellent, because that’s what this fic is all about.

Bill lags a few steps behind as they make their way through the crowded corridors, warily eyeing Laura as she converses quietly with Lee. He’s too far back to hear exactly what it is they are saying, but he’s got a pretty good idea what – or who, depending on how you looked at the whole damn thing – the topic of conversation must be. And given the look of outright condemnation Laura had shot him as she’d turned to leave the Ward Room, he figures he’s better off back here anyway. Bill knows when he’s not wanted, just as he knows that this respite is only staving off the inevitable. He’s all too aware that Laura is also biding her time and that, despite her apparent focus on her conversation with Lee, she’ll be more than ready to lay into him at the first available opportunity.

Which, he realizes with dismay as they come to a stop outside his quarters, is likely to be a lot sooner than he’d hoped. Reluctantly, Bill steps forward to join them at the top of the steps just as Laura utters a quiet, “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Adama,” and gives Lee a tight, if grateful, smile. Her gaze then flicks sharply to the left, onto him; and what little warmth there had been in her expression vanishes immediately. Without a word she turns and makes her way down the stairs, nodding stiffly to the marines stationed outside as she steps through the open hatch without a backward glance.

Bill doesn’t miss the sympathetic parting glance Lee casts his way, and he watches his son’s retreating form with envy for a few seconds before resolving to bite the bullet and follow Laura inside.

He steps cautiously through the hatch, his eyes peering into the dimly lit space in an effort to seek her out. He doesn’t have to look far; she’s standing just a few feet away with her back to him, her knuckles conspicuously white against the dark veneer of the chair back she seems to be gripping like a lifeline.

“Laura?” he ventures softly.

“What the frak was that?” she hisses as she wheels around to face him, eyes ablaze, her expression furious.

Even though he’d known it was coming, Bill can’t help but flinch at the whip-crack sound of her voice as it rings through the relative stillness of the room. But while there is fire in her tone, her physical appearance tells a very different story; her complexion is too pale, the circles under her eyes too deep, and the tense set of her shoulders is one that’s become all too familiar to him these past few months. “You need to rest.”

“What I need is an explanation. You’re really going to let that… woman wander freely around your ship? My Gods, she was trouble enough the first time around; and now, now she’s….”

The possibilities hang unsaid between them but Bill doesn’t need to hear them spoken aloud to know just how absurdly grim their situation has become. Ellen Tigh as the voice of knowledge and reason; he’s known the woman for almost thirty years and the very idea of her as some sort of scientific Cylon mastermind makes him – like so much of what he’s been forced to contemplate and accept these past few weeks – feel physically sick.

Instinctively he reaches for the flask he’s come to keep at his hip, only to realize to his consternation that it’s still in Ellen’s possession. Under Laura’s reproachful gaze, Bill makes his way determinedly to his desk where a half-empty bottle and last night’s glass are dutifully waiting for him. “What else would you have me do, Laura?” he asks as he pulls out the stopper and fills the tumbler almost to the brim. “Throw her in the brig? Last time I checked being a pain in the ass wasn’t a criminal offense.”

The scathing look she gives him in response communicates her opinion clearly, but still she seems to feel it necessary to drive her point home. “She’s playing you, Bill.”

Bill doesn’t bother to dignify the accusation with a response. The implication is an old one; and one that, in light of recent events, Laura frankly has no business making. By now, she’s as guilty of letting her heart dictate her actions as he is.

“She is,” Laura insists, taking his silence for the obstinate disagreement that it is, “You just can’t see it.”

“I see just fine.”

“Really? And that,” she says, inclining her head to indicate the tumbler in his hand – almost empty now Bill realizes, reaching again for the bottle, “helps bring you clarity, I suppose?”

It’s a cheap shot – she of all people has no right to criticize his choices of late – but it’s the tiny kernel of truth it holds that really pisses him off. Setting the now empty bottle back on the desk with slightly more force than is necessary, Bill turns to meets her disapproving glare head on and takes a deep, deliberate sip of his drink.

If possible, Laura’s expression sours even further. “You don’t have to go down with your ship, Bill.”

“Neither do you.” It’s the absolute wrong thing to say and he knows it, but the words are past his lips before he can stop himself. What little color there had been drains from Laura’s face; guiltily he drops his gaze to study the play of light reflecting of the dwindling content of his glass.

Eyes downcast, he doesn’t realize she’s moved until he feels the comforting, familiar weight of her hand on his arm and her thumb worrying the fabric of his sleeve. Meeting her eyes, Bill is taken aback by the profound sadness he sees reflected there. He feels the brush of her fingers against his as she takes the glass from him, and turns his head to watch as she carefully reaches behind him to set it on the edge of the desk.

When she steps back, he feels the loss of her warmth and proximity like a physical ache. Laura doesn’t seem to notice his discomfiture; instead she studies him appraisingly for several moments before offering him a humorless quirk of her lips. “We’ve been over this; I’ve made my decision.”

They have been over this – several times, in fact – but that doesn’t mean he’s any closer to accepting or agreeing with the choice she’s made. Even now, as angry as he is with her, Bill can feel the familiar panic building in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him; he feels too much this time – grief, anger, longing, love – to be able to stand dutifully by while Laura allows herself to quietly fade away. But by deliberately shutting him out and making the decision to stop treatment on her own, that’s exactly what Laura is asking – forcing – him to do.

Bill isn’t sure which hurts him more; the choice she’s made or the fact that she still doesn’t trust – perhaps even love – him enough to include him in the process. Whichever it is, of this he is absolutely certain: in doing so she’s forfeited any right she may have had to criticize his decisions.

“And this one’s mine.”

This time it is Laura’s turn to flinch; as much as he may have meant it, it pains him to see the hurt his words have caused her. He doesn’t want to fight with her – not now and not like this. But at his core Bill is nothing more than an old soldier, trained to attack when fired upon, to shoot first and ask questions later. And right now he can’t help feeling as if he’s being assailed from all sides, with no clear recourse to be found.

Laura, Galactica, his crew; he’s not ready to give up on any of them – not yet. So he’ll offer up pieces of himself instead – sacrifice his principles, his heart, his very soul if he has to – in the hope that somehow it will be enough to save them. That’s his choice; and if numbing the pain any way he can is what it’ll take to help him make good on his unspoken promise, then so be it.

Bill’s gaze and expression are unrepentant as he waits patiently for the expected sharp rejoinder from Laura. Instead, the silence stretches on between them, and when Laura does finally speak, her tone is soft and uncomfortably apologetic. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Bill says nothing in response; he can’t think of anything to say that won’t make matters worse than they’ve already become. The silence stretches on between them for what feels like hours, until it is abruptly broken by the hollow sound of the hatch being opened. Bill doesn’t look up, doesn’t react right away; and by the time he’s worked up the nerve to look after her, Laura is gone.

The ensuing stillness feels heavy and uncomfortable, and instinctively he turns and reaches for the bottle. The mouth of it is almost to his lips before he remembers that the last has already been poured; there’s nothing left.

 

*fin.*


End file.
